


Just Hold On, We're Going Home

by cantgetnoworse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, M/M, Throwaway line about suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, gendered slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse/pseuds/cantgetnoworse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Harry's fingers shake. He wants him to say something. More than that, he wants Louis to hug him and tell him he loves him, that tonight was just a bad night, an anomaly.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"I'm so bloody tired," is what Louis says instead.</i>
</p><p>Harry works in an office and Louis works in a bar. He doesn't want them to grow apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Hold On, We're Going Home

**Author's Note:**

> Ummm, I've been absent in every way imaginable, but I wrote this in the middle of writing something twice as long and ten times as difficult just so I could finish something for once. Most of it is super self-indulgent and was written on a phone, but here it is nonetheless!

Harry listens to the line go to voicemail for the fifth time just as the front door slams open.

There's the sound of someone barreling into the apartment and Harry's heart drops. He takes a deep breath in preparation, then pushes up from the couch. He walks careful steps towards the entrance, expecting the worst.

Louis is giggling to himself as he shucks off his shoes. He doesn't seem to notice Harry until he stumbles back-first onto the door, imbalanced, and his glazed eyes light up with recognition.

"Harry!" he exclaims in a slur, then kicks off his second shoe. He's absolutely pissed.

"I've been calling you all night," Harry says slowly, running a hand through his tangle of curls. "Are you drunk?"

He doesn't know why he asks. His eyes know what they see, but his mind doesn't want to believe it just yet.

Louis hiccups and indicates a pinch with his thumb and index, squinting. "Just a bit."

Harry sighs. "For fuck's sake, Louis."

Louis walks over to him. He employs clumsy fingers to pull the pressed black button-up out from where Harry had tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. Harry doesn't resist, holding his hands out by his sides and letting Louis make a crinkled mess of the material.

"Why're you so dressed up?" Louis asks him, meeting Harry's eyes. He sounds like he has marbles in his mouth. "S'weird and stupid."

Harry looks past Louis's shoulder, heart aching. His voice comes out quiet when he speaks. "Because we had plans tonight. You were supposed to come home early from work today."

"Blah blah blah," Louis says blandly, pressing a sloppy kiss to Harry's jawline that leaves a smear of spit behind, "so many words."

Harry flinches instinctively away from the stench of vodka, whispering under his breath. "Jesus, that's rank."

Louis physically recoils like he's been struck, and Harry, of all things, feels guilty. Louis looks a cross between confused and wounded as he takes a step back, stumbling on his own feet. Then his face clears, and panic sets in, his eyes going sharp and wide right before he pushes past Harry and toward their bedroom.

The unmistakable sound of retching follows, loud and disgusting and so painfully familiar. Harry could disinfect bathrooms for a living with the way he's been cleaning up after Louis lately. He remembers one night a week for the past month that this has happened, and he doesn't understand what went wrong.

He pulls out his phone from his back pocket with trembling fingers and dials his mother, pressing the mobile to his ear.

"Hiya mum," he murmurs down the line. "Listen, I don't think we'll be able to make it tonight after all. Yeah, no, Louis's caught this stomach virus going around his work. I know, we'd been looking forward to celebrating as well. There'll be other promotions. Maybe next week, alright? Love you, too. Talk soon, mum."

He listens to her wishing him well before he tells her he loves her once more, then he ends the call with a heavy heart. He sets his mobile down on the entrance table and runs his fingers over the screen thoughtfully.

Button by button, he undoes his shirt. He takes his time with it, stalling pathetically. He's afraid of his own bedroom. He's been able to somewhat train his gag reflex over the past few weeks, but he still dreads Louis' sloppy aim.

When he's finished with the shirt, he tugs it the rest of the way out of his waistband and makes his way into the bedroom. Louis is passed out, snoring, face tilted onto his shoulder with his arm sprawled over his chest.

Harry strips to just his boxer briefs, folding his clothes neatly and setting them aside. He switches on the light in the bathroom and immediately gags upon spotting the splattered mess, covering his mouth and nose on instinct.

He feels tears prick the backs of his eyelids, but he's too tired to really be upset. He'd been so wound up when he couldn't reach Louis earlier, tense and taut and trembling, that now his body has gone boneless with exhaustion, a sense of resignation loosening his joints and allowing him to feel the dull ache left behind.

He goes through his ritual: flush the toilet. Fill the sink with warm water and Dettol. Grab a rag from the cupboard. Soak it in the sink. Clean the toilet seat, the tiles, the bit that managed to reach the side of the tub. Soak the dirty rag back in the warm water and Dettol. Wash his hands, wash his hands again, wash them a third time. Dry them. Drain the sink. Throw the rag over the shower curtain railing. Switch off the lights. Go back to bed.

He twists Louis's deadweight body around so that he isn't at risk of choking on his own puke in the middle of the night. Harry holds his breath while he maneuvers him so he doesn't have to smell the bitter stench. He can deal with it from the bathroom floor, but he might actually break down if he lets himself smell it proper off his boyfriend's skin.

The tears keep vaguely pricking his eyes, even when he's finally settled into his side of the sheets. There's a world of space between his body and Louis', but he doesn't try to close it.

He twists and turns for a bit, too worried to sleep, waiting for any moment that Louis stirs and needs him for something. When he can't stay awake any longer, he turns his back to Louis. He lets his eyes fall shut against the residual wetness, hoping he doesn't wake up to the sound of sick.

\--

Harry paces when he's restless.

He's not a fast pacer, and most people don't pick up on his anxiety because of his unshakably calm exterior. But his body knows, heartbeat rocketing. His feet carry him between the kitchen, the sitting room and the bathroom one too many times for it to be anything but an aimless attempt to get his nervous energy out.

Louis finally wakes up. Harry is in the kitchen having a brew when he hears him shuffling about, his back to the counter. It's peppermint because his nan says it helps calm the nerves. Might be a load of bollocks, but it's refreshing and soothing on his throat, so he doesn't mind the urban legend of it.

Louis has the decency to look sheepish when he walks into the room with a murmured 'good morning', his cheeks burning pink and his gaze evasive. He runs a hand through his sleep-wrecked hair as he makes his way to the kettle, bare toes curling into the floor where he stops. He won't meet Harry's eye.

He hasn't showered because his hair isn't wet, but he's changed - just in boxer briefs and one of Harry's worn black shirts with the loose collar. Harry hates himself for letting his eyes rake over his body appreciatively, but he can't help the fact that Louis can look edible under the worst of circumstances.

"Went out with the boys after work for a few drinks," Louis croaks, apropos of nothing. He doesn't sound half as good as he looks. "Must've gotten a bit carried away."

Harry snorts, looking down at his own mug. His fingers are trembling around it. "You think?"

When Harry looks back up, it's to Louis' deploring eyes on him, apologetic and puppy-like. Harry's blood all but boils.

"Don't," Harry warns quietly. "Don't just look at me like that as if it fixes anything, Louis. It's not fair to me."

Louis looks away, down at his empty mug. The kettle has come to a boil, the sound of it rumbling through the kitchen. There's silence for too long when the rumbling stops.

"You could at least apologize," Harry suggests, maybe a bit pathetically.

"You know I'm sorry, H."

"Do I?"

"Don't be stupid, Harry."

"That's rich," Harry drawls. There's no malice in his voice, because he doesn't know how to be malicious with Louis. He wishes he did. "I'm fairly certain getting absolutely cunted when you know that my mum's expecting us over for dinner is as stupid as it gets."

Louis looks over at Harry and blanches. "Oh, fuck. Harry."

Harry scans his face, confused, then realization dawns on him and he wishes it doesn't. He glances away, not wanting his own flicker of disappointment to show. He takes a shaky breath.

"You'd forgotten, hadn't you?"

"Christ," Louis mutters. Harry feels him approaching in increments, and then there are familiar hands on his hips, burning fingerprints there. "I'm so sorry, H. I'm the worst boyfriend ever."

"You're not." Harry doesn't know what possesses him to murmur it, but it's true. He's had so much worse, and he couldn't imagine a life with anyone else.

Louis slides both hands around to the backs of Harry's thighs, thumbs stroking the short hairs there. Harry's eyes fall shut, knowing what's to come. He lets himself be kissed a moment later, soft and sweet and lingering. It's dry and minty and only lasts a few seconds.

"I'm sorry," Louis repeats, mumbling it into Harry's mouth like a secret.

Harry doesn't know what to say, so he keeps quiet for a while.

"I've got a small gig tonight," he settles on, voice unsteady despite his best efforts. "Do you... Are you gonna come?"

"Of course I'm gonna come."

"Don't just say that, please." Harry shakes his head. "Don't just say 'of course I'm gonna come' like you didn't fuck off with your friends and stand me up just last night."

Louis sighs. He wraps his arms around Harry's waist, forcing their bodies closer together. He must push up to his toes when he kisses Harry this time, because he really, properly catches his mouth. It's wet and warm and taste so much like Louis, but somehow not.

"I'm gonna come," Louis says into the corner of his lips, kissing the skin there again. It sounds definitive. "Okay? I wouldn't miss it for the entire world, H."

Harry breathes him in for awhile, saying nothing, then finally feels his resolve melt away like a physical ailment seeping out of his bones.

He kisses Louis back as lightly as he can. "Okay."

Louis nods against his lips. "Okay."

They kiss for a while, warm and slow and without ulterior motives, until Harry breaks away with a small sound and nudges his nose against Louis'. The tips of his ears burn. "Can you -- could you maybe brush your teeth?"

Louis frowns, meeting his eyes. "I have."

"I know, just-" Harry shudders, casting his gaze downwards guiltily. His hands are on Louis's hips. "Again, if it's all the same."

It takes a while, but Louis finally nods, loosening his grip on Harry's waist and pecking him softly. "Yeah. Of course. Of course, it's all the same."

Harry watches him go, heaving a trembling breath. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, and staves off the worry in his bones.

\--

The show is incredible.

Sweat drips down the knobs of Harry's spine the entire time, pooling into the dip of his back. Everything is so loud -- the guitars and the drums and the crackle of his voice in the cheap microphone. It's all so incredibly amateur and raw, so far from perfect that it probably sounds like pure noise at some points, but the crowd eats it up and throws it right back, an endless cycle of energy.

Harry and the boys have got a small following now in the local scene. His day job prevents him from performing outside of weekends, but he gets a rush every time he shows up to a venue on a Friday or a Saturday or even a Sunday and the crowd is full enough to necessitate people being pressed right up against the stage, shoving closer for more as the show goes on.

They're always tiny places that he plays at, so it's not like he's got hundreds and hundreds of fans on his hands, but it feels like thousands some days. It feels like the clubs with the flickering lights and bare brick walls are stadiums with floodlights and bleachers further than the eye could see.

The adrenaline rush borders on scary most times, pulling him out of the limitations of his body and allowing him to fly, to touch the ceiling, reckless and with abandon -- but Louis is always there, standing side-stage with a private, fond smile, the pride in his eyes as palpable as a kiss to the lips. He's Harry's grounding force, his one constant, his version of gravity. Louis keeps him where he needs to be, levitating just off the beer-stained stage but not too far that he couldn't land safely if he needed to.

He almost expects today to be different. He expects Louis' smile to falter, or to disappear entirely from Harry's line of vision, or for the pride in Louis' eyes to be diluted in something else.

He's proven wrong within instants. Louis' presence is so bright and hot and all-consuming that Harry finds it hard to catch his breath between songs, and by the end of his set, Harry's wound up like a spring, ready to burst.

They don't make it to the flat. Harry ends up with his forehead pressed to the pistachio green metal of the bathroom stall, gagging for it. He's got his jeans around his feet and Louis against his back, moving inside of him in sharp thrusts. Harry's bracketed in by strong arms, Louis' hands curled against the wall on either of Harry's sides for leverage, his fingers blurring in and out of focus where Harry's trying to keep his eyes open.

Harry moans in shallow, desperate puffs of air that reflect back onto his chin, and the rest of the world manages to fade to nothing until his body seizes up and pulses violently. He sees pure white and he's never felt safer.

 

***

 

It's a Tuesday night when Harry gets a call from Sam, a supervisor at the bar where Louis works. All he says is, "Harry, mate, how're ya? Listen. Lou's in a bit of a state, d'you think you could swing by and pick him up?"

Harry's with some of the agency's clients, talking about an upcoming photo exhibit he's hired on to help them promote, but he escapes with the excuse of a family emergency. It's true enough; Louis is as good as family to him as his own blood, and Sam made it sound like it could be urgent.

After driving right through at least two yellow lights and possibly a red, Harry parks his beat up Honda just around the corner from the bar, not bothered enough to stay within the lines. He gives the dashboard a few meaningful pets like he would a cat, a gesture of thanks he always makes when the car remains loyal to him and doesn't stop dead on the road in the middle of a trip.

Heaving a breath, he slips out into the night, slamming the door behind him. Bumps run up and down his bare arms as he counts his steps, walking around to the front entrance; the biting air taunts him for forgetting to grab a jacket in his haste. Sam had sounded worried on the phone, though, and the worry had transferred over to Harry seamlessly until everything other than picking Louis up seemed to blur out of focus.

'A bit of a state', he'd said Louis was in. It turns out to be the understatement of the century.

Harry's breath catches in his throat when he sees him. Louis' hair is in disarray, the collar of his Marvel Comics shirt visibly stretched like someone had pulled it hard. Upon closer inspection, he's got a bar towel full of ice pressed to the jut of his cheekbone and what look like wet, red-rimmed eyes. Harry's fist clenches instinctively.

"Babe," he murmurs, approaching closer carefully, afraid to make it worse somehow by sneaking up.

Louis' head snaps up lightning quick at the sound of another human's voice, an indication that his reflexes had just recently been reminded how to work under threat of danger.

There's two kinds of Louis. There's the giggly, smiling, careless kind that has you thinking he can do no wrong, and then there's this.

Louis looks so broken Harry can feel the cracks of him in his own flesh.

When he realizes it's only Harry, Louis whimpers with his lips pursed tight like a wounded dog.

Harry wraps him up in a protective hold without another thought, cradling his head to his shoulder. His heartbeat is rabbiting. He stays quiet as Louis' warmth bleeds into him, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he's got an armful of trembling, shaken boy who's making exactly no sound.

"Fuck," Harry finally manages to murmur, articulate as ever. "What -- what happened?"

Harry can feel Louis shrug, but just barely -- it's a defeated twitch of his shoulders and nothing else. He isn't expecting an answer, anyway.

Harry presses a kiss to the top of his head, murmuring into his hair, "I'm so sorry, Lou. I'm so, so sorry. I love you, babe."

Louis sniffles back his emotions and pulls away from Harry's grip, making a visible effort to regain his composure and play brave.

"It's not your fault," he tells Harry, but his voice is tellingly rough with a threat of tears. "Just -- did you bring the car?"

Harry nods warily, drinking in Louis' swelling cheekbone every time he re-adjusts the ice on it. His stomach churns.

"Just around the corner," he tells him softly. He wants to hold him again.

Louis nods, looking anywhere but at Harry. "Lead the way."

\--

Louis is sitting on the edge of the couch, chin tilted up. Harry sits opposite him on the coffee table with a fresh bag of peas from the freezer, carefully holding it against Louis' cheekbone. The area around his eye is starting to go grey, and Harry is afraid to think how it will look by tomorrow morning.

Harry studies him carefully. "Gonna tell me what happened?"

Louis takes a deep breath by way of response. Harry waits, looking at Louis expectantly until Louis rolls his eyes, flinching like he'd miscalculated the amount of pain such a small gesture of annoyance would cause him in his state.

"Homophobic prick," he says simply, and Harry's heart all but stops, but he's careful not to react too strongly.

"He just attacked you like this...?" he asks, shifting the iced bag and earning a hiss and a soft kick to his shin. "Sorry, sorry. How did he even -- I mean, did he -- I'm just -- confused."

"Nothing to be confused about," Louis offers under his breath, eyes fluttering shut. "I called him a cunt and he called me a fag, and then one of us punched the other, I can't remember who-"

Harry recoils, holding the ice pack away from Louis' face and staring at him. "Wait, stop. What started it? Why did you call him a -- why did you call him that?"

"Because he was being a cunt? Spilt half of nearly every drink I poured him down the bar."

Harry stares at him in disbelief, speechless. "You instigated a fight because one of your customers spilt a bit of beer on your _bar_ counter?"

Louis shrugs, touching his fingers to his eye. "Are we done with the ice?"

"Lou," Harry says. "Lou."

"What?"

"I just -- what's going on? Bar fights, now? You're not -- you're not yourself."

"Been possessed," Louis deadpans.

"You might as well have," Harry retorts, feeling a dull hysteria bubbling inside of him and making him dizzy. "You're drunk half the time, and now you're risking your job like this. For what? The adrenaline rush of some... testosterone-fueled dick-measuring contest?"

"God, yeah, y'know nothing gets me off quite like being called a faggot," Louis snipes, looking away.

"You know that's not what I meant, Louis," Harry respond softly. "I just -- ever since --"

"Ever since what, H? Go on."

"Ever since," Harry repeats slowly. "You got that rejection letter from the job you wanted..."

Louis laughs, but it's a small, ugly sound, humourless.

"I just--I'm sorry," Harry says, scrambling for the right thing to say. "I'm sorry you didn't get it, Lou. But there are so many other options, if you just look around, I could even help you--"

"You don't get it, do you?" Louis says, his voice chillingly level. There's an upward tilt to his lips that seems almost sinister. "All of this? This is it for me. Working at a bar. Dealing with bigoted pricks. Getting drunk on week nights. We can't all be you, can we, Harry? In our pressed suits, running from meeting to meeting."

"That's not fair," Harry mutters, feeling a pang of betrayal at being talked to like that. "No one's ever said you have to be anything other than what you are right now."

"Oh? I thought I was good as possessed a minute ago?"

"Because _this_ isn't you. This bitter, jaded person who's pushing me away. I've known you for ages, and this isn't you. You're the person who always picks harmless banter over a fistfight. You're the person who's made me laugh so hard I've had food coming out of my nose, Lou. Not this. You're so far away."

Louis looks off to the side, his face gone soft but unreadable. Harry's fingers shake. He wants him to say something. More than that, he wants Louis to hug him and tell him he loves him, that tonight was just a bad night, an anomaly.

"I'm so bloody tired," is what Louis says instead.

Harry's fingers are freezing and numb. He sets the chilled peas down on the table and wipes his hand off on the thigh of his jeans, letting the rough scrape of the material on his moist palm ground him momentarily.

He looks at Louis closely, feeling the itch to bridge this widening, intangible gap between them whichever way he can. He'd carve his heart right out of his chest and set it in Louis' palm, if that would help.

Instead, he murmurs, "Can we talk about this tomorrow night?"

Louis nods, meeting his eyes. He looks as tired as Harry feels. "Sure, Haz. We can talk about this tomorrow."

Harry knows, somehow, that they never will.

 

***

 

It's a week later that they wake up blissfully tangled in each other without the shrill buzz of the alarm. They're actually at home at the same time for once, with nowhere else in the world to be but right in the middle of their bed.

Louis is sort of plastered against Harry's back with a leg edged between both of his, the big spoon today, his body so warm it's almost uncomfortable. They're both still naked, having fallen asleep right after a halfhearted shower and a wholehearted shag.

They'd fucked silly, is the thing. Harry laid Louis out on his stomach and held him open, eating him out slowly like there was no end purpose, getting messier and messier with it -- chin and nose and cheeks spit-slick where he was buried against him. Then he opened him up on just his middle finger, crooking it sideways and deliberately rubbing the spot just to the right of his prostate until Louis was absolutely shaking with it, begging for the right kind of friction to get him off.

Harry ignored him, slipping another finger inside and giving a few more teasing, rhythmless thrusts, just wanting to watch Louis' arse work to accommodate him as he scissored his fingers experimentally and twisted them around, forcing Louis' rim to stretch out around him.

When Harry could hear the tears in Louis' voice, though, he finally took pity on him, leaving him empty for only a moment so he could line himself up and fuck him proper like they both really wanted -- hard and rough and forceful enough to slam the headboard to the wall.

He held Louis in place with a hand to the back of his neck and drove into him in tight little circles, punching high, breathy moans out of him with every delicious roll of his hips.

He fucked him long and slow at first so Louis would feel every inch of him, and then started to build up a rhythm until he pounded into him without reserve, quick and merciless, encouraging him with particularly sharp thrusts to lose his composure and be louder than he wanted to be.

Harry slammed into him so hard on the last few thrusts that Louis' mobile fell off the bedside table, and they both came intensely enough to shake with it for ages, little aftershocks of their own personal earthquake making their way out of them.

The morning after always has a sacred quiet to it, so opposite to the blasphemy of the night before; even the orange light spilling in from the dirty windows and hugging their bodies feels purer than usual. Harry doesn't care if it's just an illusion - he can feel it cascading over his skin in waves, and that's real enough for him.

He stays in his spot for a while, just breathing in the silence and letting the sun wake him in increments.

But then, well. He starts to miss Louis, even with him right by his side. He selfishly wants him awake so he can steal a succession of sweet kisses and see if those taste any more pure, too.

So he starts to play with Louis' small hand, twisting his fingers around in his own until Louis lets out a spluttering breath from behind him that breaks the sleep-steady pattern he'd had going moments ago.

Success.

Harry twists around in his arms and Louis gurgles in protest, apparently affronted by the amount of commotion this early in the morning, but Harry doesn't care. He wants to see him.

When he's snuggled close enough, he grins down at him, eyes scanning his sleep soft skin and pink, pink lips. His blue eyes look watery, clearer than the ocean this time of day. Harry drops a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Morning, beautiful."

"You get to rise to my chiseled face and I have to wake up to your horrid mug," Louis murmurs, a softness to his voice betraying his words.

Harry laughs, an undignified sort of noise escaping him. He kisses Louis again with the laughter still bubbling gently out of him, muffled by their lips, and this time Louis responds properly, the two of them easing into the warm, familiar slide of lips.

They kiss until the only sound in the room is of their hot mouths moving together, occasionally changing the angle and going back in for more -- deeper, rougher, more tongue, then slow and sensual again, an alternating rhythm that has Harry's jaw aching.

He breaks away for breath when he's lightheaded, tucking his face against Louis' breastbone and pressing a kiss there. Louis starts to play with his hair, and it makes him want to fall asleep again, just like this, but his phone rings before he can truly entertain the thought.

He groans into Louis skin and heaves himself up forcefully, grabbing his mobile.

"Aiden," he reads off the screen, and Louis whines a pitiful sound.

"Just ignore it."

"No, I can't do that," Harry murmurs guiltily, answering and pressing the phone to his ear. "Hiii."

Louis looks a bit wrong-footed, but mostly in an upset toddler sort of way, so Harry drops a peck to his lips.

"Nothing planned for the night, no," he says down the phone. Louis reprimands him with a pinch to the side so hard that Harry squeals and twists away, swatting at him and coughing to cover up the embarrassing noise. "Sure, um, I don't mind. Could I bring Louis? Alright, I'll let you know in a bit? Alright, sounds lovely. Talk soon, mate."

When Harry hangs up, Louis is already crawling out of bed with a put off groan. "Rest in piece, morning boner, I'll miss you."

Harry rolls his eyes, watching Louis walk around the room naked with his strong curves on display, muscular and tempting. Harry wants to live in the dip of his back.

"Don't be so dramatic," he says, eyeing his boyfriend's arse when he bends down to pick his boxer briefs out from a pile of dirty clothes. "Aiden likes you."

Louis pulls his pants up and turns around, fixing Harry with a stare that seems to say _come on, now_.

"What?!" Harry raises his eyebrows. "He does! He likes you."

"He likes _you_ , H. I'm just in his way," Louis retorts. "The last time I met him he bloody called me William."

"That's not fair," Harry reasons, "he only called you William because he thought he heard me call you Willy. Willy and Louis sound quite similar."

"They really don't."

"Louis."

"Harry."

"Louis. Please?"

Louis sighs, spurred back into looking for his clothes. "Look, it's fine -- you go out with him and I'll see you when you're home, yeah?"

"He's bringing his friend Matt and I want you to come. Please. Super please. I've not seen you properly in ages."

"Then why would you make plans with other people, Haz?"

"Because I promised Aiden we'd hang out and I owe him for saving me at work the other day," Harry says softly.

"Right, of course. Work pals and all that."

"Will you just come tonight?" Harry pulls his lip between his teeth, trying for irresistible. "I'll fuck you with that new vibrator 'till I've got carpal tunnel?"

Louis rolls his eyes, sighing. He waits a theatrical while to respond, making a show of deliberating before he finally groans. "Fine. But if he calls me William again, I'm out."

"Deal."

Louis walks over to the bedside table, fumbling through it and retrieving a floppy purple vibrator, throwing it at Harry's naked chest. He straddles his lap with the restrained beginnings of a smirk. "Now make good on your word."

\--

Aiden chooses the meeting spot, so of course it's showy and over-the-top and called a "lounge" rather than a pub. There's dim lighting and the pretentious sort of music that doesn't have any lyrics overtop. All around them are daunting arches and pillars and crystal chandeliers fit for a historic monument rather than a place to get twatted.

There's probably a profit margin of 300 per cent added to everything on the menu.

Louis looks immediately uncomfortable when they walk in, giving Harry a skeptical look as they make their way toward Aiden and Matt's table toward the back.

"I'd quite like to make rent this month," he quips in a whisper, but Harry can hear the genuine worry behind it.

Harry reaches for his fingers and interlocks them with his own, pulling Louis closer. He kisses the back of his hand, giving him his best dimpled smile. "Just be my date and let me spoil you."

Louis rolls his eyes, but he follows where Harry tugs him and doesn't complain again as they all exchange pleasantries and introductions and get settled in with a round of drinks.

Conversation is predictably awkward to start, but everything becomes more organic once they've had enough alcohol in them.

It's all shaping up to be just spectacular, really, right up until the moment in the night when Matt asks: "So what is it that you do, Louis?"

Harry's probably the only one who notices Louis going stiff, lifting himself up a bit and squaring his shoulders. His face clouds over and Harry holds his breath, trained to Louis' non-verbal cues like a hawk to its prey.

"I'm a barkeep when they let me," Louis offers, forcing a brilliant smile.

Matt's eyebrows shoot up in interest. "Is that right? Whereabouts do you serve?"

"Just the other side of town."

"Right on," Matt says.

"Harry mentioned you were after a change of scenery," Aiden chimes in, and Harry's blood runs cold. "One of us could put in a good word at the agency, if you're keen."

Harry looks down at his drink as his ears start to burn from top to bottom. His glass is filled with artificial blue liquid and has a circle of coarse sugar around the rim. He can feel Louis' eyes on him.

Louis' voice is steely when he looks back to Aiden. "Is there a call-out for college dropouts, or?"

"Louis," Harry interjects, turning pleading eyes onto him.

"There are junior positions," Aiden reasons. "Data entry and that."

"Y'know what, mate," Louis continues, bitter smile playing on his lips. "I'd probably off myself before joining you lot at the agency, if I'm honest. I'm not really keen on bending over and taking it up the arse from any tit in a suit who asks me to."

"Louis," Harry snaps more sharply, pinching his thigh by way of reprimanding him.

The table goes instantly quiet, but Aiden is the first to speak up, sounding hesitant. "It's fine, Haz, really."

Louis raises his eyebrows, fixing his eyes on Harry's. "You heard him. It's fine, Haz. Really."

Harry feels humiliated and small, something he's never felt in the company of Louis before, and he absolutely hates it. In an instant, he's certain he never wants to feel this way again.

He looks from Louis to Aiden apologetically, offering a small smile.

"I think -- um, I'm quite tired," he says, taking out his wallet and setting a couple of twenties on the table. "Should cover our share, yeah?"

"Hey, don't worry about that--"

"Night is young," Louis adds, but Harry is already sliding out of the booth.

He slips on his jacket, regarding Matt and Aiden with another meaningful glance. "Thank you for inviting us out tonight, I really appreciated it."

Aiden nods. "Of course, mate, was good to see you outside the office."

Harry holds his breath and waits for Louis to say just one more comment, but miraculously he doesn't utter another word. He follows Harry out of the booth and towards the door, keeping himself a solid two steps behind.

\--

They don't talk on the cab ride home, and Harry sticks so close to his car door his legs start to cramp. The silence is tense and difficult to breathe around, all the words they've left unsaid taking up residence between them and leaving little room for anything else.

By the time they're wandering around their bedroom getting changed for bed, they're carefully avoiding touching each other or meeting one another's eye, as if any form of contact will set the stilted air around them ablaze.

"He wants to fuck you, by the way," Louis says, apropos of nothing. "Aiden, that is."

Harry feels like he might cry. For all that he tries, he can't do this tonight.

He goes into their closet and wrestles a blanket from the top shelf, grabbing Louis' pillow off the bed and walking over to him without a word.

Louis stares at him uncertainly, eyes calculating. Harry knows that look. It's the look Louis only gets when he knows he's gone too far but doesn't know how to fix it.

"Just need a bit of space tonight," Harry tells him quietly, and his own heart cracks at the truth behind the admission.

Louis swallows visibly, Adam's apple shifting. Harry half-expects him to argue, to beg, to plead, but he just nods like he's been defeated fair and square and accepts the pillow and blanket into his own arms, shuffling outside of the bedroom.

Harry hears him setting up on the couch and, for once, wishes he were anywhere else.

\--

Harry sleeps terribly.

There's this one recurring nightmare he has where everyone he loves is dying and he can't do a thing to save them, and then, inexplicably, another one where he's sitting his GCSEs again but this time, he's forgotten to study for them.

By the time he's awake, he feels like he hasn't rested a wink, bones aching from the less-than-pleasant adventures they went on in his slumber.

He turns around to face the other side of the bed, reaching out instinctively for a comforting handful of warm boy, but what he gets instead is a clump of cold sheets and a reminder of last night's events. Right. The nightmare hasn't ended just yet.

He's in no hurry to confront Louis about yesterday. In fact, what he really wants right now is to sneak onto the couch with him and steal a cuddle, maybe pretend the whole thing didn't happen -- so he just stays where he is for the longest time, letting the quiet of the room lull his thoughts into a soft thrum behind his temples. He rests his eyes again, but once he's on the brink of falling back asleep, a sound from outside his room brings him to full consciousness again.

It's Louis' voice, quiet and muffled. Probably on the phone to someone. Harry can't make out what he's saying despite his mild efforts to eavesdrop, and then Louis' voice is gone again and the television is on instead.

Harry takes a deep breath and turns back around, facing the cracked open door of the bedroom, weighing his options: stay in here forever, or go out there and face the music.

Reality wins in the end, just like Harry knew it would. He allows himself a quick shower, changing into a clean pair of boxer briefs. He considers forgoing a t-shirt altogether, but he's feeling especially vulnerable these days, and any bit of armour -- even in the form of flimsy cotton -- is somehow helpful.

When he wanders out of the bedroom, he finds that Louis is still mostly lying down on his back on the couch, blanket and pillow pushed off to one side. He's got his head tilted to the side against the armrest, eyes trained on television. He looks something other than human -- angelic and soft, a vision of domesticity in his skewed grey shirt and black boxer briefs.

Harry clears his throat and walks closer slowly, making his presence known. Louis shifts at the sound so he's sitting up against the armrest with his knees bent, making some room near his feet. Harry murmurs his thanks as he settles down.

It's awkward for a bit, and Harry doesn't know how to make it less so, fingers fidgeting in his lap. They watch about twenty minutes of mind-numbing television before Louis finally speaks up.

"Haz," he says quietly. "M'sorry for being a prick."

Harry nods, swallowing hard.

"I was talking to Jo earlier," Louis continues. "I, um. I sent Sam a text to see if I could get a few nights off bar duty, go up to Doncaster."

Harry's heart clenches. He looks over at Louis, scanning his face. They usually plan these things ahead of time so they can go back and visit their hometowns together. Johannah is as close to Harry's heart as his own mum, and he hasn't seen the girls in ages.

"I just thought, y'know," Louis adds. "We could use some time to figure ourselves out."

Harry looks down at his hands. He scratches the cuticle on his thumb down, feeling all out of sorts and vaguely panicked. "I don't need _that_ much space."

"I know, love. But I think that maybe -- maybe I do?"

Harry shakes his head, taking a breath. He looks up at the TV, shrugging. "I just really don't understand. We were fine a month ago. You were making jokes about what we'd name our kids, and now -- now you act like it's some sort of huge effort to be in my world."

"God, it's not that. At all. Harry, listen to me. Are you listening?

"I'm listening."

"The only thing I like about my life is that it's a part of yours."

Harry turns saddened eyes onto Louis. "Then what _is it_? What do you need me to do, Lou? I only want you to be happy again."

Louis' cheeks turn a bright pink. He looks down into his lap, quiet.

"Let's go up to Donny together," Harry tries when Louis doesn't reply. "And take a break from here. Then maybe you can tell me what's been on your mind without all the -- all the fights and the alcohol and the lashing out."

Louis takes a shaky breath, but it ends on a humourless laugh. "I really doubt you're going to be able to get a week off from the agency with how busy you've been."

"Sod the agency, Lou," Harry says, becoming impatient.

Louis shakes his head. "Just see what days you can get off and we'll go from there, alright?"

Harry nods. He maneuvers himself onto his knees over the couch cushions, crawling between Louis' legs. He settles a hand on either side of him and pecks his lips softly. "Alright."

Louis kisses him back just as soft. "Alright."

\--

After a bit of bartering, Harry manages to convince his boss to give him a few days annual leave with his weekend so he can go up to Doncaster with Louis.

Louis goes up earlier than Harry because Sam is lenient and approved the whole week off for him, but he and Harry keep in touch over the phone at least twice a day -- once around Harry's lunch break and again when they're getting ready for bed.

Harry feels antsy to be far away from Louis when they've left things so up in the air. He keeps reminding himself they'll be together again soon, far away from London, somewhere they can actually sit and talk or even just share a homemade brew and hours of unhurried snogging.

When he gets in from the train station in Doncaster, Johannah has a delicious-looking spread for tea waiting for him, and his stomach rumbles in appreciation loud enough to make her laugh.

"You poor thing," she says, taking his coat and scarf. "C'mon, everyone else has already eaten. Sit down and don't get up until you've had your fill."

She disappears out of the kitchen with his things and comes back when he's halfway through two sandwiches. She ruffles his hair, and he can feel some of the tangles in the curls being forced apart by her fingers. He tries not to purr. The Tomlinsons have a magic touch.

"Louis is just down the park with Stan throwing about the football," she tells him. "You'll go join him when you're done. He's been buzzing all day, can't sit still a minute knowing you're coming. Harry this and Harry that."

Harry flushes and his chest goes warm. After all they've been through in the past month, it feels nice to be reminded that Louis does actually love him and miss him and want him, even if it's been tougher and tougher to believe lately.

"I've missed him," Harry says quietly.

Johannah sighs and takes a seat opposite him. She smiles sweetly, the way only mothers do. "I know you have, poppet. Him and I have had a few chances to chat since he's gotten here."

"At least he's talking to somebody." Harry tries his absolute hardest not to be petty or jealous. It's Louis' mum, for god's sake; of course he's talking to her, and it's good that he is. "Did he tell you he applied for an admin job with the Doncaster Rovers a while back?"

Johannah hums. "He did."

Harry nods quietly, looking down at his food.

"He wants to talk to you, love," Johannah tells him, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand in hers once. "Louis' not really good with words, is he? He's good with actions, you know, showing you how happy or sad or angry he is. But he can't just come out and say it."

"The thing is," Harry says, resting his head in his hand where it's propped up by an elbow on the table. "I know that he's sad -- and maybe a bit angry, too -- but I just. I just don't know why. I mean, I think I do? I'm fairly certain I do. But how can I be sure if he doesn't tell me?"

"I reckon we both know what's getting him down," Johannah says, sympathetic. "But I suppose it's not really my place to say that. You're the one who's been living with him."

Harry sighs, defeated. "I know."

"You've just got to be patient, love. Sometimes you've got to treat him a bit like a child, you know? And I say that with enough love to make any mother burst right out of her skin, mind you. But he didn't get to be a child, not really. Not with the way he had to raise himself and his sisters so young," she says, sounding regretful. "And sometimes I think he doesn't know how to deal with basic things -- like scraping his knees and telling the right person that he's hurt and needs help. He's always had to deal with his scrapes and cuts by himself."

Harry shivers at her words, feeling a soft tug of protectiveness make itself known in his belly. He swallows against the lump in his throat and murmurs, "Thanks, Jo. You've always known the right words to say."

"Mother's intuition," she says simply, a smile so much like Louis' playing on her lips. "I know that boy more than I know my own heart."

Harry nods. He thinks he feels exactly the same way.

\--

The cold of the night bites right into the apples of Harry's cheeks, following him all the way to the park. His ears sting and his eyes go wet from the snippy gust of air working against him. He has his jacket back on, hands buried deep in his pockets as he steps further out into the field, two familiar figures in the distance becoming more and more in focus.

What he sees makes him grin from ear-to-ear: Stan and Louis yelling at each other while they vie for control the ball, pushing and shoving the way anyone would with no referee to call them on it. They're each in their football kits and beanies, long socks pulled up to their knees, and they look like overexcited teenagers rather than adult men.

Stan lets out a truly impressive string of expletives when Louis gets the ball and runs with it straight to the other side of the field, Stan trailing behind him halfheartedly, a defeated man. Louis scores, of course, thrusting his arms in the air and turning around to grin at Stan and likely rub it in his face.

When he notices Harry, his demeanor falters and so does his smile, making Harry doubt himself and his presence there altogether. Maybe he should've waited for him at home instead of following him here like a stalker. He takes an instinctive step back, lifting one hand out of his coat so he can wave at Louis uncertainly, biting his lip.

In a lightning quick moment that leaves Harry reeling, Louis' grin grows from unsure to absolutely, positively blinding, twice its size as he sprints towards Harry.

Louis all but tackles him to the ground, wrapping him up in an embrace so forceful it has them both toppling a few steps back. Harry grabs him around the shoulders and laughs, steadying them in place as Louis breaks away.

"You made it," he says, breathless and beaming.

"I did," Harry says, grinning over Louis' shoulder and nodding at Stan in the distance. "Heya, mate. Better luck next time."

Stan laughs, grabbing the ball and jogging over, giving Harry a decidedly manly bear hug that ends in some sort of secret manly man handshake that Harry knows little about.

"If I play against you, mate, I won't need luck at all," Stan says.

"Heyyy." He's not offended on any level; it's true enough that he's terrible at contact sports, and he's too happy to be on the receiving end of Louis' affection to care, anyway.

"I'll see you two tomorrow, then?" Stan asks, walking over to a couple of sports bags on the sideline. He stuffs the football into one before hauling it over his shoulder. "I'll bring my mate Johnny and we can play two on two."

"Make sure your friend is adequately prepared for me," Harry tells him, waggling his eyebrows. "I'm a beast with balls."

Louis rolls his eyes and shoves Harry's shoulder, making him trip two steps sideways on his tangled feet. Stan salutes them one last time before he's on his way, leaving Harry and Louis alone in the midst of the cold air and the massive field that smells like wet grass, adrenaline pumping through each of them for entirely different reasons.

"Let's go home, yeah?" Louis tells him, and Harry nods.

"Let's go home."

\--

On the living room floor, they play a truly rigorous round of Scrabble.

The Tomlinsons do not fuck about. The twins are too young to play on their own, so they split and team up with Louis and Harry instead. After some protest, Lottie teams up with Fizz and the two guard their letters with their lives. For her part, Johannah has a pokerface so unreadable it actually frightens Harry a bit.

Within an hour, the game dissolves into a mess of cheating and trickery and shouts of betrayal, but the chips fall exactly as they should: master of the dictionary Harry wins first, Lottie second, Johannah third, and Louis, the sorest loser of all, last.

By the time Harry has managed to build Louis' ego back up and stop his whinging -- mostly by covering his mouth up in his hand every time he starts up again -- the girls want their goodnight kisses, lining up with their necks craned and cheeks upturned.

Johannah makes Harry and Louis her nan's recipe for hot chocolate before she follows her daughters to bed, winking at Harry when Louis isn't looking.

They finish their drinks before they head out into the backyard, sitting on the dusty porch swing. It doesn't get much attention when they're not there, the girls too young to appreciate it and Johannah too busy to kick back and relax, but whenever Louis and Harry visit, they curl up together side-by-side, laps covered in a blanket as they enjoy the silence away from the city.

Harry's feet are on the ground, dragging them back and forth slowly, but Louis has his entire height pulled up to his chest, looking mousy in a way that makes Harry's heart swell to twice its size.

"I spoke to your mum earlier," Harry says.

Louis snuggles closer against his side with a hum.

Harry tightens his arm around Louis' shoulders, pressing a kiss to the side of his head and speaking into his hair. "I'm glad we came here."

Louis turns his eyes onto Harry's lips, looking thoughtful. "Yeah. Glad we came, too."

Harry smiles privately, pressing a gentle kiss to Louis mouth. "You're so beautiful."

Louis groans and buries his forehead into Harry's neck, words muffled but coherent: "Shut up, please."

Harry laughs, a rumbling sound that comes from his gut.

"Okay," he agrees, letting the night bathe them in its comforting silence for the longest time before his stomach twists and he says, "Hey, Lou? There's actually something I wanted to talk to you about."

It takes a few moments, but Louis readjusts himself so he's looking at Harry. "Go on."

"I didn't want to tell you over the phone, but, like." He heaves a breath. "You know how Ed's been getting a lot of attention lately? From A&R and record labels and things?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, he was approached the other day from some bloke with Universal who was at his show, and. He's signing a contract."

"Fuck off," Louis says, sounding aptly awed. "Haz, that's amazing. Shit... He's one of the most talented people in London, if I'm honest; he deserves every bit of it."

"I agree," Harry says.

Louis' eyebrows furrow. "Wait. Why were you worried to tell me this over the phone?"

"Well, um. It's not just that. He sort of -- he asked me if I would, like," Harry begins slowly, searching for his words. "If I would be willing to sort of quit my job and go on tour with him, in a couple of months."

"Oh," Louis says, his eyes widening and then narrowing again. " _Oh._ For how long?"

"A month, I guess? Possibly six weeks. Not much money in it, but I would be doing what I really want to do and I might even get some exposure, you know?"

Louis looks overwhelmed. "Yeah. Yeah, of course, H."

"But, like. I wouldn't do it without you," Harry adds quickly.

Louis' eyebrows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"Ed was telling me he wants to build a team he can trust. He doesn't want strangers handling his music all of a sudden. He wants a family around him on tour," Harry explains. "And he was saying he was looking for a tour manager, and I suggested -- well, I told him that you managed The Rogue for a bit, and--"

"Harry."

Harry holds breath. "Don't be mad, please."

Louis' face softens. "I'm -- I'm not. I'm not mad, I'm just -- I managed The Rogue for, what? A year? And we were barely a real band, anyway."

Harry shakes his head wistfully. "You're incredible at it, Lou. I've seen you when you're overseeing a project -- any project -- and you're so passionate about it. That's all Ed wants, is passion. You've got that in spades."

Louis takes a deep, shaky breath. He looks away from Harry, but Harry watches him in profile nonetheless; his face clouds over and then clears a bit, something vulnerable breaking through. Harry waits for him patiently.

"A month ago, when I got rejected from the job with the Rovers office," Louis starts, pausing thoughtfully. "I felt like -- you were in this real life 'career', you know? Suits and meetings and real, actual tasks. I was still cleaning up beer stains and trying not to be 'too gay' so I wouldn't drive away tips."

"Louis..."

"No, it's. It's not a big deal, it's just. I suppose I felt like you were moving forward, and I was stuck in the same spot, or maybe even sinking back."

Harry hesitates. "Lou. You know this isn't what I want, either, right?"

Louis looks over at him with cinched eyebrows, confused.

"The whole 'career' thing, that -- that isn't what I want," Harry continues. "The suits and the meetings and the tasks. I mean, I'm so thankful I get to have a job at all, but that's not what I'm passionate about." He pauses, his breath catching. "I'm -- I'm passionate about you. You and the stage. You're only things that get my heart racing. The only places that feel like home."

Louis surveys Harry's face before a small, watery smile tugs at the sides of his lips. "You're the cheesiest person I've ever known. You do realize that, right?"

Harry laughs under his breath. "And you're the loveliest I've ever known."

Louis rolls his eyes, looking away and wiping the top of his cheek. "Case in point."

"I told Ed I'd have an answer for him by the time we're back from Doncaster," Harry says softly, and Louis looks back at him. "I don't want to pressure you into this, but just know that I won't leave without you. Wherever you are, that's where I'm going to be, and I'll fight for us to be happy there."

Louis takes a deep breath, and they just stare at each other for a long, comfortable while, the night air whistling around them.

Then Louis nods, only the once.

Harry breaks out into a tentative smile in return, his heart skipping a beat. "Yeah?"

Louis' smile widens, eyes flicking down to Harry's lips. "Yeah."

Harry sighs in relief, ducking his head to capture Louis' mouth in a kiss. They get lost in it, sweet and slow and tasting like Johannah's nan's hot chocolate, until Louis breaks away, breathing against Harry's lips.

"Hey, H?"

"Mm?"

Louis kisses him gently once more, resting his forehead against his and murmuring the softest confession into the night, "I'm passionate about you, too, you know."

Harry smiles, biting his lip. It's all he's ever needed to hear.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the read. Feedback is always appreciated. ♥


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